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Kurt didn’t think it was coincidence. Nor did he think it was his rugged good looks that had captured her attention.

The fact Bjorn didn’t remember that pretty face or mention seeing her at the Falls last week meant either the guy was losing his edge, or they were colluding in some way.

Trying to set him up in a honeytrap, perhaps?

Or maybe she worked for Hurek?

“She’s a little young for me.”

Bjorn scoffed. “She looks legal.”

Kurt wasn’t sure which of the two women Bjorn was referring to, but both were in their early twenties and had more in common with his kid than with him.

“If I weren’t happily married, I’d definitely be chatting her up, and I have a decade on you.”

More than. “Yeah, well, you’re a dirty old man.”

“So my wife tells me, but she’d also cut my balls off if I so much as thought about it.” The guy was married to a much younger woman, and they had kids still in elementary school.

Kurt struggled with it. If a guy Bjorn’s age tried to date his daughter, he’d probably want to take him out to the woods with a shotgun and a nice shiny shovel. But it was up to Daisy who she dated.

Didn’t mean Kurt wouldn’t have opinions about the whole thing. Lots of opinions.

Maybe he was the old fart.

Loneliness pressed in on him. There was no wife waiting for him back home—she’d given up on him long ago.

And while he had his daughter, whom he adored, and his colleagues, he missed having someone to hold at night, to laugh with, to confide in.

But he had no desire to dive into the stormy seas of the dating pool. Not at his age.

Some days, Kurt felt twice his years. Especially right now.

The fact he was here, wasting his time on what had turned into a wild goose chase when his team needed him, pissed him off.

If the target had been anyone except Darmawan Hurek, whose brutality he’d witnessed on that tiny island in Indonesia last summer, he’d have left with the DEVGRU boys eleven days ago.

Instead, he and his right-hand man, Jordan Krychek, had been ordered to stay on so they could hit up a couple more potential sources of information.

They’d struck out, and Krychek had left for home yesterday.

The Israelis had tipped off the US that Hurek had apparently been sighted in the DRC in November.

By the time he’d arrived with what the public liked to refer to as SEAL Team Six, the terrorist had disappeared into the ether.

The fact the guy was on the FBI’s Most Wanted list had only brought in more leads that had gone absolutely nowhere.

Being grumpy and frustrated wouldn’t endear him to his old pal though. He forced himself to relax, or at least to pretend to. “When is an old fart like you planning to put your feet up and retire?”

“As soon as I can afford it. Unfortunately, Zim doesn’t offer much in the way of a pension plan.” Bjorn stared thoughtfully into the bottom of his glass .

“A hundred grand could help with that.” Kurt wiggled his eyebrows.

A reluctant laugh seemed to catch Bjorn by surprise. “It would.”

“You wouldn’t go home?”

“Back to Norway?” He shuddered. “Africa seduced me a long time ago, and I’ve no desire to freeze my balls off every winter.”

“You’ve gone soft,” Kurt joked.

“And I’m not too proud to admit it.” The guy finished the cigar and stretched his arms wide in a yawn. “I need to head back. The missus wasn’t too happy I was going out on my first night back in town.”

“You’ll have to make it up to her. I appreciate you meeting with me.”

Bjorn laughed loudly and clapped him on the back. “As if you gave me much choice.”

“Get in touch if you hear anything.”

“Sure.” Bjorn hesitated. “Watch your back, ya? The man you’re looking for… he’s very dangerous. No one will want to admit ever having associated with him.”

“That’s why I’m looking for him. So he can’t hurt anyone else.”

“You Americans, so full of righteous optimism.” Bjorn laughed again and shook his head. “Let’s hope you find him. Goodbye, old friend.” Bjorn walked away.

Kurt grunted and asked for the bill. He paid, leaving a healthy tip, stood, and tucked his wallet into his pants pocket.

The brunette was nowhere to be seen. Whatever she was up to, he was grateful for the pistol he had unofficially strapped to his ankle. He strolled out of the front door of the restaurant and walked over to where he’d left his rental vehicle in the gravel parking lot.

And there she was, swearing colorfully at an old beater 4X4 with a flat tire. She kicked the deflated black rubber and then, hearing his deliberately loud footsteps, looked over her shoulder. She turned away, shoulders slumped in defeat.

Kurt hesitated by his SUV. There was no one else around, not even the red-shirted security guys who usually patrolled the lot.

He sighed. Was he about to get jumped?

“Need a hand?” he called out.

“No. Thank you.”

Her crisp British accent surprised him.

MI6? What was their angle?

She opened the cargo area and started digging around. Kurt climbed into his 4X4 and pulled the Glock 26 out of the ankle holster and laid it on his thigh as he started the engine.

She removed a tire iron and began fighting with the rusted-on wheel nuts.

Was this a setup?

Did she have friends in the shadows who planned to jump him when his back was turned? Was she going to pull a gun on him if he helped her out? Could she lead him to Hurek?

She glanced at him nervously and then back toward the bar where the music blared loudly.

She seemed nervous.

What if she wasn’t an operative but instead a sex worker or simply a tourist caught in a predicament that could go from inconvenient to terrifying in the space of a few seconds? What if he’d become cynical to the point of paranoia, losing his humanity along the way?

What if it were Daisy?

Thoughts of his daughter made him take a deep breath.

He didn’t spend as much time with his kid as he wanted.

He’d missed out on her growing up because her mom had moved to Denver after they’d split, and he’d thrown himself into his new career at the FBI.

They’d reconnected after she’d gone to college, and he was working his way slowly back into her life.

Daisy was a petite blonde whereas this woman was tall and willowy, but she didn’t look that much older than his kid. And if she was an operative working for MI6 or for Hurek, maybe he could use her .

If she wasn’t, then maybe this would be his good deed for the day.

He turned off the engine, got out of the car, slipping his weapon into his waistband at the small of his back and covering it with his shirt.

He scanned the shadows and nearby cars, but he didn’t see anyone lurking. The night was still young for the partygoers.

The woman looked up warily as he approached.

“I said, I don’t need any help. Thank you.” The bite in her tone could have sliced meat.

He stopped about ten feet away as she struggled with the tire iron.

“What happened?”

“I must have run over a nail.”

“You have a spare?”

“Of course, I have a spare.” The expression on her face wasn’t convincing.

Kurt circled to the back of her SUV and glanced inside. A blanket had been shoved to one side. The dirty gray felt base of the cargo area was pulled back to reveal a dubious-looking spare, but at least it appeared to hold air.

“Hey, what are you doing?” She jumped to her feet and took a step toward him.

He eyed the metal bar and slipped his hand closer to his weapon. “Would you like my help, or would you prefer to spend the night stranded in this parking lot?” Although he suspected she might be sleeping in the vehicle, which wasn’t exactly safe for a woman alone.

She licked her lips, and Kurt felt a bolt of attraction that took him by surprise. He immediately felt like a sleaze. He was definitely old enough to be her father, which might not bother some guys, but it was a line he wouldn’t cross.

“Why would I accept help from a stranger? ”

Kurt crossed his arms. “I wasn’t aware you were waiting for a friend to arrive to save the day. Forgive me.” He took a step back.

Uncertainty painted her features as she examined his face, clearly looking for some assurance she was safe with him. She appeared to come to a decision and held the bar out to him which was foolish as hell.

“The nuts are stuck. I don’t think you’ll be able to shift them unless you have one of those fancy Formula 1 tools in your boot.”

He grabbed hold of the bar, and she took a nervous step back, balancing on the balls of her toes, ready to run.

At least she had some sense of self-preservation.

He could be a serial killer for all she knew.

He kept his awareness wide but hunkered down beside the tire that was almost bald and had a big-ass nail stuck in the wall. No way did she drive over that.

“Who are you?” She feigned casual interest.

Kurt wasn’t in the country on official business, although his presence had been okayed by the regional Legat—the legal attaché. Still, he didn’t need to advertise his position, especially to a potential threat. The last thing he wanted was a target on his back.

“People call me Joe.” That had been his nickname on and off for years.

“ Joe ?” She snorted then looked embarrassed.

He found himself answering her honestly, which was how he generally operated. “Yeah. Joe Montana.”

Her brows hiked. “Like the state?”

“Yeah.” He smiled. “Like the state. And the quarterback.”

“Huh?”

“Nothing.” She was both too young and too British to have heard of the famous 49ers’ Super Bowl triple MVP.

He slotted the head of the tire wrench over the dirt-encrusted, orange-colored wheel nut and prayed that was African dust rather than pure Iron Oxide.

His pride was at stake now. He pushed down on the metal bar with all his might, and the damned thing didn’t budge.

Damn. The young woman moved beside him, the bare skin of her arm brushing his with a jolt of electricity.